Circles
by jawnandshirley
Summary: John and Sherlock have a past. A complicated one. ((lots of BAMF!John coming soon)) Temporarily on hiatus until summer bc school is just too much, guys
1. Remembering

"John."

So close to dying, Sherlock looks more human than he has in months. Ever since John left, he's reverted back to the state he'd been in before. He became more moody, temperamental, rude, and all around bored than he had ever been with John, and there wasn't a person alive who didn't realize it.

Sherlock also seemed to value his life mounds less, stepping into dangerous situations far less prepared than he had in the past; something he was just now realizing might have been a bad idea. Lying in the back of an ambulance, with a torn, rough hole burning through his stomach where the suspect had shot him, all Sherlock had running through his mind was John. It's true that over the past couple of months he'd been less than careful with his life, and while he had put it down to just enjoying the thrill of the chase, Sherlock supposed it was time to admit it. A consulting detective couldn't function without his blogger. In fact, a consulting detective gave up without his blogger; a conclusion he'd come to far too late, seeing as the bullet wound in his stomach is causing rapid blood loss, a declining heart rate, and possible major organ damage. Sherlock may never be able to apologize to the man who meant more to him than even his own life, and that hurt more than any wound a murderous suspect could inflict. His ex-lover's name is the last word on Sherlock's lips as he tumbles into unconsciousness.

**. . .**

His first day at Eton, Sherlock Holmes managed to tell the entire school about their headmaster's infidelity with the P.E. teacher. During the opening assembly. By the end of the day he'd insulted half the staff, quite literally verbally deconstructed a group of footballers who'd managed to immediately single him out as a target for their taunts, and alienated his roommate to the point that the boy had requested a room change. Sherlock didn't mind, he prefered to be alone. He knew he was smart, and was proud of it, but in the company of others, his brain became more of burden than a gift.

Sherlock never expected to make friends at school, his entire life his only companion had been his older brother, but even Mycroft had suggested he try to be amiable with the other students. It's hard to survive in public school without allies. Sherlock knew he'd be safer without trying to get closer to the others, he'd just end up saying something "socially inappropriate" and come out of the whole ordeal one black eye richer, and his list of enemies a few names longer. That's why when he received the notice that he'd be getting a new bunkmate, Sherlock immediately began preparations to repel the boy.

"John Watson." Sherlock could already tell he'd detest the boy. So common, the owner could only be as dull as the name suggested. He chuckled to himself. This might even be fun.

A short rap on the door brought Sherlock out of his mind, in the doorway stood a short, muscular boy, possibly a year older than Sherlock. Blonde, shaggy hair outlined his friendly dark blue eyes. The boy, obviously John Watson, bit his lip and smiled nervously. His arms were full of bedclothes and luggage and his face was the utter definition of apprehension.

"Hi. My name is John Watson. Pleasure to meet you." John held out his hand to shake Sherlock's, and a cascade of pillows and bags fell onto the floor and crowded his feet.

**. . .**

The hospital room is completely dark when Sherlock wakes up. His mouth is dry, his chest feels like it's been mauled by a tiger, and his stomach - he doesn't even want to think about the pain in his stomach. He takes a breath and the feeling that his chest is shredding into pieces is more than enough evidence that the paramedics had used a defibrillator when he'd gone under. Tentatively, a hand reaches down to feel his abdomen. Even covered in thick bandages, the pain from a gentle touch radiates from Sherlock's stomach to every inch of his body. His heart rate rockets and the beeping from his heart monitor alerts nurses nearby. A wild commotion of white jackets and hands on his IV line swirls around Sherlock as he passes out yet again.

**. . .**

It was clear to Sherlock that John was used to a certain degree of self-sufficiency. Perhaps that explained why he didn't even seem bothered when Sherlock refused to shake John's hand, or even offer to help with the mess of bags on the floor. But it certainly didn't explain why John didn't even seem bothered by Sherlock's obvious avoidance, disgust, and ploys to remove the boy from his dormitory. John Watson obviously didn't fit in with most of the boys at Eton. His clothes were more worn than the others, and his vernacular not nearly as posh. He held himself with an air of respect, but as soon as the others eyed him, he visibly deflated. Sherlock observed all of this, including the way John ate his meals quickly and efficiently, never expecting or wanting more food. He noticed the other boys taunting John about his appearance, but John simply let the insults roll off his back. He didn't seem to have many friends at school either. Still, this was no excuse for Sherlock to back off in his plans. He'd simply have to step up his game.

"Your sister." Sherlock blurted out one morning while John was making his bed.

"Excuse me?" John asked, wide-eyed and confused, these were the first words Sherlock had uttered in the three weeks the pair had shared living quarters.

"Your sister. That's whose hand-me-down bed sheets you have. As well as your trainers and a good portion of your leisure clothes. A bit butch for a girl, don't you think? Although I suppose it's not that unusual since she's a lesbian. Were your parents alright with that? While they were alive I mean?"

"I - um," John stammered, "what do you-"

"No! Don't answer. I know this.' Sherlock strode over to John's bedside, lifted his pillow, and removed a family snapshot from under it. At John's amazement he simply rolled his eyes, "You look at it every night. There's an awful bit of obvious movement involved in stashing a photo under your pillow. Now, your mother accepted your sister's sexuality. Not at first, no, but she warmed to it, sentiment involved with it being her own child influencing her decisions, but your father never quite warmed to the idea. Even to the day he died, most likely. She had a hard time when they died didn't she? I'm surprised she let herself be separated from her dear baby brother to let him go off to school like this."

John's face clouded with a mix of resentment, grief, confusion, and rage. His mouth opened as if he was going to say something, decided against it, and instead took a step towards Sherlock. John raised his hand briefly, but his shocked confusion at the whole ordeal overrode his anger, and instead of striking Sherlock, he quickly turned on his heel and stormed out of the bedroom, leaving the door behind him as he left. With a satisfied smile, Sherlock slipped on his shoes and strode out of the room on his way to morning lessons, certain that he'd once again have his own room when he returned that night.

Sherlock didn't see John for the rest of the day, not even at dinner, or the mandatory school-wide assembly afterwards. He overheard a group of boys saying that they'd seen John in the science wing a couple of hours earlier, dissecting some type of animal. That he'd been there all day and apparently hadn't gone to any of his classes.

Typical, Sherlock thought. Even if he'd managed to withstand Sherlock longer than most people had, John was just as pathetically susceptible to emotions as everyone else. He'd be surprised if Watson wasn't moved out of the dorm already, given the circumstances. Sherlock had been expecting this, hoping for it even, but a surprising twang of something awfully close to disappointment twisted in his stomach anyway.

**. . .**

One week in the hospital, and Sherlock's bullet wound still hasn't gotten any better. What's worse, Lestrade refuses to bring in any photos or cold cases for him to work through, apparently he's not strong enough to "handle the excitement of a case" yet. As if the doctors in this godforsaken place know anything. This is why he worked better with John as his doctor. John never refused him cases when he was hurt, or made him stay in these uncomfortable hospital beds when he could just as easily recuperate on his couch in the flat. John made healing easy. John made everything easy. With John, Sherlock could sleep and eat. He made Sherlock's mind go blissfully blank when it all became too much, he made Sherlock feel - everything; something he'd given up on long ago as a lost caused. But that was before.

**. . .**

When Sherlock returned to his room, he was surprised to see His sandy-haired roommate sitting cross-legged on his bed, a look of prepared bitterness on his face.

"Look," John blurted out before Sherlock could get a word in, "I don't know what your problem is with me, and I don't know how you know all those things about my life, but I want you to know that your intimidation won't work on me."

Intimidated? Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. Did John actually think he'd wasted his time and energy to bully the boy? As if he could be equated to the average Neanderthal. Like he didn't have enough to do without attacking his teenage roommate. "Do you honestly think-"

"Yes," John cut in, "I think that's exactly what you were doing. I think you're the average boarding school bully and taunting me was just another way to hide your insecurities, but that doesn't matter. This ends now."

Average. John had called him average. Even the biggest prats in his year recognized Sherlock's brilliance. And while he didn't mind being taunted for his grades and science experiments by people who couldn't even spell experiment, Sherlock was outraged to think someone as plain as John Watson thought him ordinary.

"John, you're sorely mistaken. In case you haven't realized, I've not really got anything to be 'insecure' about. And even if I had, to think that someone as plain as you could cause me to defend myself is outrageous."

"No, Sherlock. What's outrageous is that someone as brilliant and talented as yourself chooses to hide from everything and push every one away. I know you don't have friends, Sherlock, and I'm certain you've noticed I don't have many either. I thought we could have tolerated each other at least. Even if you've decided you're better as a loner. You're a coward, Sherlock, and you obviously don't want me around, but I'm not going anywhere. I decided a long time ago that I would never let a bully get what they want from me, and that includes you." With that, John turned out his light and got into bed.

The discussion was clearly over, but Sherlock stayed awake for hours, trying to understand where exactly he'd gone wrong in getting rid of John. Everything he had done had been an effort to turn him away, but still John had said - that he could have tolerated Sherlock. Not exactly friends, but it was implied. Why did John want to be friends after everything he'd done? Sherlock didn't fall asleep until the sun had started to peek out over the horizon, still wondering what he'd ever done to deserve something as bothersome as a friend.

Over the next couple of weeks, Sherlock decided he would rather have John's offered companionship than have to deal with yet another classmate to ignore. Even if John did get annoyed or angry with him, Sherlock would at least have the benefit of a 'I told you so'. But John didn't get annoyed with him. Beyond all reason, John actually seemed to enjoy Sherlock's company. Any time Sherlock deduced the other students, teachers, or even John himself, John would just look at him in utter amazement and mutter "brilliant" under his breath.

It was uncommon, at best, but Sherlock soon found he rather enjoyed the boy's compliments. His rapt attention to everything Sherlock said didn't hurt either. Every night after curfew, the two would stay up and talk about all the idiots at Eton, and how much better it would all be once school was over. Well, Sherlock would talk, and John would just sit attentive on his bed, hands propped up under his chin, leaning forward towards Sherlock, as if what he had to say was so precious not a single word could be on the nights Sherlock had to practice his violin, John would just sit quietly and read, but he never fell asleep until his roommate had finished, and he never let the music end without a short round of applause. John was truly amazed at Sherlock's talent, and he wasn't afraid to show it. Sherlock would tell himself that the only reason he allowed himself to become friends with John Watson was for this cheap adoration, but truthfully, it happened during those nights when Sherlock was thinking about his day, brooding over the ways he was singled out, ostracized for being who he was. The nights when Sherlock was quiet. John could have just ignored the boy and gone to bed when he was in these moods, but instead he would pull out an old photograph, or a copy of one of his favorite detective novels, and ask Sherlock to deduce as much as he could about it from a first glance or the opening paragraph. And after the boy had finished listing off everything he could, down to the tiniest detail, John would look straight into those powerful, teal eyes, smile, and declare how impressive Sherlock's genius was.

**. . .**

"Brilliant." Sherlock awakes to a tired, portly doctor looking at his chart. "Your levels are better than expected, It looks like you'll be getting out soon."

It's been three weeks, and the doctors keep saying this, but Sherlock's wounds haven't gotten any better. He refuses to accept Mycroft's premise that it's because he isn't trying to heal. The human psyche doesn't have an effect on bullet holes, and even if it did, what reason does he have to try to get better? Sherlock's never cared enough about what happened to him to take care of his body, and the only person he'd ever cared for enough to worry about those things for was John.

'John doesn't need you to be strong anymore. John moved on, just like you should.'

It isn't until he sees the startled look on the face of his doctor that Sherlock registers that he had spoken aloud. Mercifully, "Doctor Green" (who already assumed Sherlock was insane due to the detective's tendency to compare the effects of his painkillers to those of cocaine) ignored this outburst.

Sherlock stays in the hospital for another two weeks. He doesn't speak once.


	2. Regret

In all her years teaching Anatomy and Physiology at Eton, Martha Hudson had never seen a pairing quite as contradictory as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. While the two boys were seemingly ignored by the entire student body, neither one appeared to care as long as they were sat close enough to pass each other "secret" notes during her lectures. As if anyone's A&amp;P textbook was ever _that _funny. From the first day of class, Martha could tell that John had a natural talent for human biology. He volunteered to answer any question she asked, and when he didn't know the answer, would hurriedly open his book and flip through it to find the information. John never complained about having too much homework in her class, and best of all to an anatomy teacher, any time Mrs. Hudson would bring out a specimen for the class to examine, John would be the first to step up and grab a scalpel. Or, at the very least, it would be in unison with the Holmes boy. Where John was the star student in her class, Sherlock was the nightmare. His knowledge of the subject she was supposed to be teaching far surpassed the curriculum for the course, but Sherlock refused to answer any questions unless they were directly asked to him, and then would answer as if he was doing Mrs. Hudson a favor. He never payed attention in class, but still managed to ace every assignment he was given. Most distressing was the way Sherlock's enthusiasm for anatomy and physiology seemed to be specific on the diseases and deaths, rather than the way things were healed. John would look to solve "the mysteries of life", as Martha so often put it, with enthusiasm and hope that one day he would use that knowledge to help people. The teenager's dream was so potent it was almost possible to read it in the gleam of his eyes and the determined smile he always wore while experimenting. Sherlock, however, would look at those same mysteries and see only information to be gleaned and stored. And once that information was obtained, his mind wandered to other, more morbid topics.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock looked up from the goat that lay open in front of him. "If we're supposed to be learning about these systems in the human body, why aren't we using real cadavers?"

Mrs. Hudson was a professional, and she appreciated enthusiasm as much as the next educator, but this was too much. "Sherlock, dear, even you can't expect that I would allow rotting bodies from the morgue into my classroom, infecting my countertops." she teased.

"Honestly Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock, as always, didn't grasp the sarcasm in her voice. "basic systems of the body are different here. Goats are _ruminant _for god's sake, and this bland domestic variety doesn't even offer any interesting diseases or bacteria." Sherlock was nearly shouting now, and he scrunched his face up into a look of pure exasperation. "I never took you for the blindingly stupid type, but perhaps you haven't noticed, homo sapiens," he grabbed John's wrist and waved it about, sending goat liver flying across the room, "don't have hooves, floppy ears, horns on their head, or hair all over their bodies. Well, most of them anyway." Sherlock let out a deep sigh of satisfaction and turned to John, a self-satisfied grin stretching across his face.

John couldn't help it. He burst out laughing, not caring that they were in the middle of dissecting an animal or that Sherlock had just insulted his favorite teacher. Sherlock, who usually scoffed at what most people call "amusement", couldn't control himself either, and soon the boys were laughing themselves hoarse in the back of the classroom. They continued giggling the entire way to the principal's office.

**. . .**

Mrs. Hudson enters the flat in her usual manner, bustling about, setting afternoon tea on the counter and heading for the door, when she sees her tennant lying in the same position and wearing the same clothes she had left him in nearly 24 hours ago.

"Really, Sherlock", she complains, "It's been a month since you got back from the hospital, and you haven't even _tried_ to act like a normal human being." Sherlock, who is lying on the sofa with his head crammed into the crease between the cushions and the back, lifts his head and cocks an eyebrow at this, craning his neck and looking rather like a beached seal.

"Normal, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, normal for you, dear."

Sherlock turns back into the sofa, "I played the violin last night." comes the muffled reply.

"That was nearly a week ago, and I'd hardly call what you did as 'playing'. More of an auditory execution, actually."

"Mrs. Hudson, I appreciate your concern, but I really do think I can take care of myself. I've done it before." With that, Sherlock hops deftly from the sofa, and in one smooth movement, turns Mrs. Hudson around and ushers her out the door. She stops in the doorway, bracing her arms against the frame.

"Sherlock, please. Go on a case at least. I know you've turned down Lestrade again, on a case important enough for him to come calling for, too. Just, go get some work. A double homicide, at least." She turns around, sympathy filling her eyes, "He won't come back simply because you've stopped taking care of yourself."

Sherlock doesn't want to hear any more of this. The pity that covers everyone's features whenever they speak to him, as if he is some broken-hearted teenager is infuriating. Lestrade had come over the other day to say the same thing. Urging him to "rally", or some other similar, idiotic phrase.

He slams the door in Mrs. Hudson's face and, because it seems appropriate, kicks the table next to him that used to hold John's wallet and keys. The table topples to the ground with a crash, and surprisingly, this small act of violence makes Sherlock feel better, so he continues on a rampage throughout the house. Any table, any chair or bookshelf that gets in Sherlock's way is upended. Every bit of furniture, every hole in the wall, every dust bunny that reminds him of John is annihilated.

It's not _fair._ Everyone sees him as the weak one, the one crippled by emotions, ruined by the mistake he made. To care. Mycroft warned him. Over and over he did. This is why Holmes' don't care. When you're cold and calculating you don't get hurt and weakened by _feelings_ or softened by doctors. Doctors with psychosomatic limps and dirty blonde hair. Who laugh when you sulk and smile exactly when you need it. Doctors who were the first to love you, all of you. Because when you make a mistake, when everything you promised would go right is destroyed, those doctors leave. Leave you alone in a flat too big for one, with broken furniture and upside-down end tables. But it's _not_ fair. Because when doctors leave, they leave to a future, to another life and another love, but they leave you alone. Doctors don't have to hear you scream over and over again for them in your dreams, or see you pour two cups of tea when there's only ever you in the house, and they don't know what it did to you.

It's dark outside by the time Sherlock's tempest is over. When every offending object he can think of has been thrown, beaten, kicked, or ripped open, he curls into a ball against the wall, right underneath the fluorescent yellow smiley face. Hand bleeding from a gash he must have gotten in the midst of his chaos, half-healed stomach wound aching, -and _why_ is he crying? Sherlock falls asleep curled into himself. His last thought before slipping into unconsciousness is that Mrs. Hudson really will have a fit when she sees the state of 221b tomorrow.

. . .

The first time it happened, it was spring, nearly time for Easter break. John, who had managed to wrangle a small band of friends by then, was out on the grounds playing football. Sherlock was sat under a tree, engrossed in his Forensic Science textbook, when he was approached by George Harmond, king brute of Eton, but not incredibly respected as his meek intelligence was far surpassed by his athletic ability.

"What are you doing here, Holmes? No one out here wants to waste their time looking at your ugly mug. Why don't you go crawl back into the test tube you came from? Freak." He spat, knocking the book from Sherlock's hands. The name had been Sherlock's calling card throughout his entire life, and while he'd gotten used to hearing it, John, who happened to be running by to intercept a pass of the ball, had not. He stopped in his tracks and turned around to face George.

"What did you just say?" John whispered, trying his best to keep the venom that had instantly coiled itself in his gut at out of his voice. Harmond was taken aback for a moment before composing himself. He had always taken John to be one of his own.

"Excuse me?" he retorted.

"I said, what did you just say to him?"

"Nothing. I just called him by his name; Freak."

John stepped forward, bringing him almost to eye level with George.

"Right. Well seeing as you've barely evolved past Homo erectus, I'd suggest you stop trying to humiliate _Sherlock_ here. Because if you continue, I'm sure a person of his intelligence could come up with better insults for a creature has idiotic and disgusting as you than the word "freak".

As he said this last word, George looked down at Sherlock by his feet and glared into his eyes, a warning in the least.

"Why would you do that?" Sherlock rounded on John eyes clouded in anger. "I didn't need your help. I'm not a child," he mumbled petulantly.

"No you're not. but you're my friend." John almost sounded like he was asking Sherlock for reassurance that this was true. Sure, the two weren't exactly what you would call "blood brothers", but they were close enough that John could defend Sherlock if he was being attacked. Right?

"I've gotten along well enough my entire life without a protector, John. I don't need friends."

"No. I suppose you don't," John stammered, obviously hurt though Sherlock couldn't fathom why.


End file.
